It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(29)

“You participated,” Westcliff retorted, wearing a Hades-like grimace.

“I did not!”

“You—” Seeming to realize that it was an unproductive argument, Westcliff broke off and swore.

“But,” Lillian continued sweetly, “I might be willing to forgive and forget. If…” She paused deliberately.

“If?” he asked darkly.

“If you would do one small thing for me.”

“And that would be?”

“Merely to ask your mother to sponsor my sister and me for the coming season.”

His eyes widened in a most unflattering manner, as if the notion was outside the bounds of reason. “No.”

“She might also instruct us on a few points of British etiquette—”

“No.”

“We need a sponsor,” Lillian persisted. “My sister and I won’t make headway in society without one. The countess is an influential woman, and well-respected, and her endorsement would guarantee our success. I’m certain that you could think of a way to convince her to help me—”

“Miss Bowman,” Westcliff interrupted coldly, “Queen Victoria herself could not drag a pair of savage brats like you along the path of respectability. It’s not possible. And pleasing your father is hardly enough incentive for me to put my mother through such hell as you are capable of creating.”

“I thought you might say that.” Lillian wondered if she dared follow her instincts and undertake a huge risk. Was there any chance that in spite of the wallflowers’ lack of success with their perfume experiment this evening, it was still capable of working some magic on Westcliff? If not, she was about to make a terrible fool of herself. Taking a deep breath, she stepped closer to him. “Very well—you leave me no choice. If you don’t agree to help me, Westcliff, I will tell everyone about what happened this afternoon. I daresay people will find no small amusement in the fact that the self-possessed Lord Westcliff cannot control his desire for a bumptious American girl with atrocious manners. And you won’t be able to deny it—because you never lie.”

Westcliff arched one brow, giving her a look that should have withered her on the spot. “You are overestimating your attractions, Miss Bowman.”

“Am I? Then prove it.”

Surely the feudal lords in Westcliff’s extensive ancestry had worn an expression just like this when they had disciplined rebellious peasants. “How?”

Even in her present spirit of throwing caution to the wind, Lillian had to swallow hard before answering. “I dare you to put your arms around me,” she said, “as you did earlier today. And we’ll see if you have any more luck in controlling yourself this time.”

The scorn in his gaze revealed exactly how pathetic he considered her challenge. “Miss Bowman, as it appears that I must put this plainly …I do not desire you. This afternoon was a mistake. One that will not be made again. Now if you will excuse me, I have guests to—”

“Coward.”

Westcliff had begun to turn away, but the word caused him to swivel back to her with sudden incredulous fury. Lillian guessed that it was an accusation that had rarely, if ever, been leveled at him.

“What did you say?”

It required every inch of backbone she possessed to hold his icy gaze. “Clearly you’re afraid to touch me. You’re afraid that you might not be able to control yourself.”

Looking away from her, the earl gave a slight shake of his head, as though suspecting that he must have misunderstood her. When he glanced back, his eyes were filled with active hostility. “Miss Bowman, is it so difficult for you to comprehend that I don’t want to hold you?”

Lillian realized that he would not be making such a fuss if he was completely confident in his own ability to resist her. Encouraged by the thought, she moved nearer to him, not missing the way his entire body seemed to tense. “The issue isn’t whether you want to or not,” she replied. “It’s whether you’ll be able to let go of me once you do.”

“Incredible,” he said beneath his breath, glaring at her with rank antagonism.

Lillian held still, waiting for him to pick up the gaunt-let. As soon as he closed the remaining distance between them, her smile died away and her mouth felt oddly stiff, and her heart thumped hard at the base of her throat. One glance at his purposeful face revealed that he was going to do it. She had left him no choice but to try and prove her wrong. And if he did, she would never be able to look him in the face again. Oh, Mr. Nettle, she thought weakly, your magic perfume had better work.

Moving with infinite reluctance, Westcliff gingerly put his arms around her. The escalation of Lillian’s heartbeat seemed to drive the air from her lungs. One of his broad hands settled between her tense shoulder blades, while the other pressed at the small of her back. He touched her with undue care, as if she were made of some volatile substance. And as he brought her body gently against his, her blood turned to liquid fire. Her hands fluttered in search of a resting place until her palms grazed the back of his coat. Flattening her palms on either side of his spine, she felt the flex of hard muscle even through the layers of silk-lined broadcloth and linen.

“Is this what you were asking for?” he murmured, his low voice at her ear.

Lillian’s toes curled inside her slippers as his hot breath tickled her hairline. She responded with a wordless nod, feeling crestfallen and mortified as she realized that she had lost her gamble. Westcliff was going to show her how easy it was to release her, and then he would forever afterward subject her to ruthless mockery. “You can let me go now,” she whispered, her mouth twisting in self-derision.